In Their Wake
by Shadowfang3000
Summary: "History is written by the winners." - Journeying throughout the vast continent of Valoran, Quinn finds herself visiting a place that all Demacians and Noxians wish to forget: The forgotten village of Kalamanda. Alone in the deserted town, she is left with nothing but her own thoughts on the incident, her superiors, and a dangerous world.


**(A/N): **Been a long while since I've written about Quinn!

Now, quite a long time ago I wrote a story regarding my perception of Quinn's function as Demacia's Wings. I've always seen her as a bit of a scout and agent, while simultaneously as somewhat of a scholar and writer – exploring the vast world of Valoran and recording the history of the land!

So it only makes sense to utilise her to explore some of the story behind my favourite event in the League of Legends – the War for Kalamanda!

Now, take note that I'm writing this as work and fatigue wears me down… So don't expect any miracles D:

**WARNING**: Spelling errors, failed attempts at sparking political intrigue, generallynothing happening, rambling, and - following the retcon - non-canon story references!

**In Their Wake**

"_History is written by the winners."_

As she surveyed the carnage left in the wake of two warring nations, Quinn tossed the infamous phrase about in her mind – trying to mould just a hint of clarity out of such fancy words. The village before her was entirely lifeless, what had once been a shining beacon of hope for the rulers of the realm now but a mere husk of what it was.

There was a certain eeriness about the place. So many homes, so many market stools – trees and lamps, benches and tables…

_Yet not a single speck of dust._

Kalamanda had once been a quiet little mining town, one that bore little importance to any of the surrounding agendas. It was a damn shame that, like so many innocents, it had been pulled into the age long conflict between Demacia and Noxus. She honestly pitied its inhabitants. It must've felt terrible being a mere villager here, powerless to prevent the loss of something close to you.

_She knew that sensation. She'd felt it first-hand._

Quinn had heard the stories, but she herself hadn't had the misfortune of being involved with the dispute directly. Nevertheless, the incident struck a deep, natural sense of curiosity that always seemed to sit close to her breast. What some called "_naivety_" she called a desire for knowledge and understanding.

It was this reason why she'd visited the ruined city; a Crystal Scar amongst an otherwise featureless expanse of never-ending plains and sand. It was one thing to have heard of it, but to experience it with her own two eyes?

_That was something else entirely._

With a powerful squawk of pride, a dashing eagle swept across the sky – its dark feathers practically camouflaging it within the cloudless blue expanse. Of course, Valorhad been vocal about their visit. In his own special way, mind.

Frowning like a fed up parent Quinn extended her arm, offering it as a perch for her avian companion to take rest upon. Expectantly the large bird dived steeply, cutting through the air and kiting elegantly forward via his expansive wings. Soon enough he stood cosily upon her stiff limb, his decorated arms folding away like the sheathed blades of an Ionian warrior.

_He'd have a grin of smugness, if only he had any teeth._

Exhaling longingly, Quinn ran a combing finger along a ruffled patch of feathers. **"We're a ****long**** way from home, aren't we?" **she sighed, feeling Valor's powerful talons tightening across her padded forearm.

_A long way from home._

_Wherever "home" was._

Her friend bowed his head in either agreement or comfort, a low grumble of approval sending a faint ripple through his body. Amused by this reaction, she began to scratch at the underside of his golden beak. He always seemed to like that. **"Fancy a fly Val?"** she questioned, freezing mid-scratch. The eagle must've assumed that by obeying his colleague he'd get some sort of reward, as eagerly Valor stretched his wings outward. Quinn leant back to give him some room, his gigantic wing-span unfurling once more. **"No sight-seeing. If you spot **_**anything**_**, come right back."**

_She doubted he was listening._

_That cheeky bird._

That was something that made their relationship all the stronger. Val wasn't a mindless drone like your usual falconer's pet, and was prone to doing things his own way. That was the sort of thing that was sure to get you discarded by the impatient, but for Quinn it added just a little bit of intrigue to an otherwise bland and predictable day.

Quinn gently tapped the tip of his beak, grabbing his attention. **"**_**Hey**_**."** she grumbled, narrowing her eyes in an almost threatening manner. Val paused for a moment, only to tilt his head with disappointment – a last ditch effort to get his own way. **"… **_**Fine**_**, just no ****heroics****. Okay?"** she reluctantly agreed. Triumphantly the eagle hopped off his pedestal, his wings flapping powerfully to get the ball rolling. **"Stay safe up there Val."**

Valor practically chuckled, as if feigning insult at such a suggestion. By Jove, he was the very _soul_ of caution! Arrogantly he rolled across the sky, beginning a full circle of the town from his enhanced perspective. Quinn watched on as he became less and less defined, her expression as awe-struck as it had been the _first_ time she'd seen the majestic eagle take off as a girl.

_He'd do what he was told._

… _Eventually._

The young woman flexed her arm uncomfortably, willing her blood to start circulating around the squeezed limb once more. If one thing was for certain, Val was – quite literally – a rather clingy type. Behind his mask of independence and boisterousness, it was clear that his respect for her was immeasurable. He'd do her proud, as he always did.

Balling and releasing her fist until satisfied by the feeling in her digits, she eventually tugged at the strap of her paper-filled satchel and headed out.

Kalamanda had a fairly simple layout, although it was certainly different to your average Demacian town. It'd been built in a large circle, its buildings shaping dusty roads just wide enough for a file of carriages or a marching army to slip through while still leaving room for pedestrians to make their way around. As Quinn paced through the silent village she couldn't help but wonder if these roads were a local creation, or hastily constructed by the marauding city state armies those years ago.

_Everyone always spoke of the bloodthirsty Noxians._

_But if anything, the Demacians were just as parched._

A slight shadow cast overhead by her vigilant companion, Quinn at least had some solace from the disturbing air of the sprawling market surrounding her. Such deviance from the norm just felt unsettling. The stalls should've been tended to; the street busy with browsing housewives and merchants pushing their wares; children barely out of the cradle darting across the crowd, playing _Knights &amp; Dragons_ or _Tag_ or _Hide-and-Seek_.

_Where were they all now?_

Quinn took a right entirely at random, her trained eyes searching for the ceremonial blues and greens of frozen warriors. She'd been led to believe that the majority of the fighting at the Crystal Scar had occurred around the outskirts of the town, although she'd yet to spot so much as a _banner_ of one of Valoran's city states. Resting a hand against the elongated post of a hanging lantern, the scout shaded her eyes and glanced skywards. The sun still sat entirely still, as it had since she'd arrived at the abandoned war grounds.

As it had for several years.

It was a simple yet brilliant answer to looming conflict. The League of Legends had commissioned one of its very own Chronokeepers to surround the entirety of the small village in a shell of time. For the hundreds of warring soldiers locked in battle within Kalamanda, time had come to a complete and total stop. No deaths, and peace at long last.

Yet the soldiers remained. _Thousands_ of men and women, their livelihoods practically torn away from them, stuck unmoving and unliving for all eternity. For the "_greater good_". Part of her wondered what it was like to be trapped like that. The _rest_ of her urged this part to keep its thoughts to a minimal.

A bitter and foreboding gust blew through the town's avenues, whipping Quinn's modestly cut locks about her pale face. The Demacian tugged at her cloak with discomfort, squeezing her hands within the warmth of her armpits as the chilling breeze went on its merry way.

Riding the currents like the born natural he – _naturally_ – was, Valor fell with an elegant glide atop the lamp post Quinn had stopped by. The eagle crooned over with an expression mixing concern and amusement, his metaphorical eyebrow metaphorically raised in a metaphorical display of metaphorical emotion.

_He was laughing at her, wasn't he?_

The young woman glanced at her avian colleague for a moment, her gloved hands tugging at the tight fabric of her uniform. **"What's with that ****look****, Val?"** she asked, exhaling loudly whilst flexing her shoulders to adjust her ceremonial travelling cloak. She'd always wondered why the uniform for women in the Demacian military was so _flimsy. _The stiff suit was thinner than a cheap Bilgewater Moonshine that'd beenwatered down for the umpteenth time! Quinn smirked teasingly, prompting Valor to flinch with fear.** "If I had such a **_**lovely**_** coat of feathers, I'd probably be as smug as you!"**

The eagle hopped on the spot, squawking defensively at her words. He was rather protective of his feathers, being one to preen whenever he had the time to spare. He didn't want to make his friend grumpy, that's for sure. She had her eyes on his feathers for a cosy blue gown, he reckoned. Or a fancy hat that she could take to parties and show off to people with!

That reaction was enough for her smirk to grow into a grin. **"Don't panic, don't panic… See anything of interest?" **Quinn pressed on, glad that the worst of the sweeping winds had passed. Valor recovered from his paranoia with surprising haste, spreading his wings approvingly to indicate that he'd indeed spotted something. The "_interest" _portion was optional, of course. As the eagle took to the skies once moreand swept ahead, the scholar couldn't help but grimace at the lifelessness of it all. She muttered to no one in particular, **"You'd find more cheer in a **_**graveyard**_**, wouldn't you?"**

_Once you thought about it that was what this place was, wasn't it?_

Valor hadn't gotten far, perching atop the point of a terrace house chimney. Puffs of smoke that emanated from the still hearthfire below frozen in the air. The effect was already peculiar from the ground up, but at such close proximity it probably threw the bird of prey off considerably. Quinn swiftly paced towards him, weaving through a sharp turn and emerging at a much less grandeur road. There was no crunch as her heels flattened against the ground. The timeless soil failed to be disturbed.

_Although she felt disturbed, that's for sure._

Strangely enough it took her a moment to make out what Valor had spotted, her large companion peering downwards with cautionary stillness. The explorer squinted through the floating sand and dust, making out the colours that she had sought.

And then she started to run forward. To keep warm, she promptly told herself.

Piercing through the veil she at last came to the clearing that the eagle had spied, her expression matching his focus and dubiousness. It was quite amusing to be honest, but after making it all this way she was beginning to have second thoughts. **"Well now."** she thought to herself aloud, taking a knee and setting her satchel onto the ground. Rummaging through she procured a bundle of papers, and with it a feather quill – one she promised she didn't pick from Valor when he wasn't looking.** "What do we have here…?"**

_Section Twenty-One: Kalamanda, Chapter One: First Impressions_

_Kalamanda is a forlorn place, swept by a frightening silence that seems to deafen quicker than any bestial roar or blast of gunpowder. While it has never boasted a varied or lively ecosystem, it was at least blessed by mines deeper than the eye could see – and relatively safe routes to trade with the more prosperous towns along the way._

_As I write this, I sit before a…_

Quinn hadn't even noticed her gloved hand autonomously scribbling notes, eager to finish the latest chapter of her explorer's guide so she could depart with her tail between her legs. Her amber eyes remained fixed on what stood before her. Or rather _who_ stood before her.

Clad in chipped and battered armours bearing pauldrons and boots the size of tree trunks, two towering warriors were locked in mid-combat. A Demacian was braced against a large kiteshield, sneering with strain as he huddled behind his one source of protection. Alongside him stood – or rather _leapt_ – a Noxian spearman thrusting his barbaric weapon forward for his foe's jugular. The Demacian had clearly been too slow; the rusted point of the cruel weapon having missed the rim of his shield and reached his exposed throat.

A small trickle of blood remained bursting from the man's neck, bathing the serrated tip in forever-wet crimson.

'_twas a killing, frozen in time._

The scout laboured to stop her scrawl, gently placing her inked feather down atop her worn papers. It must've been that sickening desire for knowledge pulling her in, for it didn't take long for Quinn to abandon her work where it lay and rise to her feet. Hesitantly she stepped forward, furrowing her brow and glancing between the ornate tones ahead.

Fierce and rapid flapping of metre-long wings filled the air, as Valor quickly descended to join her. Instinctively her arm reached out to catch him, and the azure bird took his perch. **"I don't know about you, Val."** Quinn shuddered, her eyes fixated on the oozing blood – eternally fresh in a land where time stood still. **"… But I feel sorry for the ****both**** of them".** A low murmur came from the eagle, who fidgeted upon her arm with apparent discomfort. Of course the falconer was quick to tend to his beak, as always.** "You okay?"**

Part of her knew that Valor felt just as unnerved as she did – two young men, their expressions filled with the most bitter of contempt, stuck forever in time by a war they had no say in. There were so many questions to ask, yet one stood above all upon a throne of glass and twigs:

Who had been right, and who had been wrong?

She'd heard a tale and a half about Kalamanda, from as close as Piltover to as far out as the frosted holds of Avarosa and the Freljord; heard of Noxian coups, high-profile assassinations, bribery and sabotage of anything, everything, anyone and everyoneto get their own way.

If she gave enough coin, and promised that she wasn't a Demacian, she'd even heard the more _scandalous_ stories. Tales of Demacian troops executing dissenters and rival soldiers in their tens before the War had even began.

She'd heard of Jericho Swain, and his exploits there.

_And that's where her patriotism began to waver._

Quinn had neither the privilege nor the punishment of meeting the famed Master Tactician and Grand General of Noxus, but she knew of his achievements. She'd heard of how he'd spawned from god-knows where, fishing his state from the maws of self-destruction and returning it to prosperity. In a country torn by civil strife, chowing through resources and starving with neglect, what could he have done?

_Expand._

"_We will not die, as long as we have the power to kill."_

Kalamanda – a shining gem for different reasons back then – offered everything that Noxus needed to bring itself back onto its own feet. Once you thought about it, the bitter commands and chilling choices made by the Grand General of Noxus were all made for the purest of intentions: to protect the city state, and his home, from a world that hated it.

Valor gently nuzzled against his friend's palm, his hooked beak scratching at her sensitive digits. Just how many people saw Noxus as the host of evil and wrong? Ionia, Piltover, Demacia. Hell, even the peace-loving _Bandle City_ spoke of the Noxians with vipers for tongues and daggers for eyes.

A good offence can be the greatest defence. Swain's decision in Kalamanda to fight with tooth and claw, for blood and honour, came purely from the need of his people. It wasn't a short-sighted and arrogant desire to boast about masculinity or who knows what.

The young Demacian had been behind Noxian lines before, infiltrating their streets and gathering intel from within. Even years on recovery continued, whole city blocks laying ruined and crime riddling the streets. She couldn't even begin to imagine the scale of conflict within the Grand General's mind as he gave the order for war, his anxious and starved people desperate and needy. What else could you do in such a dire situation?

What would _you _have done?

Sit back and wither, or stand up and fight for survival?

She may have not agreed with the Grand General and his ways.

_But by her brother's name, she understood him._

In some ways she was proud of the Noxian trooper forever poised for battle before her. He'd had the courage and commitment to take up the sword and the spear, and to charge into battle for the prosperity and security of his people. So many claim to fight for their nations out of respect for its banner, but so few truly face situations where their loyalty can be tested. The armour-clad soldier ahead may have been the enemy, but if one thing was for certain it was his dedication to his people.

_Because hunger, in the end, is a universal motivator._

_A fate Demacia was privileged to have yet faced._

The potential for Jarvan IV to be faced with challenges of similar magnitude brought a significant sense of worry and concern to Quinn. While the Exemplar was seen as the role model for all Demacians, he hadn't a quarter of the experience with the complexities of politics that Jericho Swain possessed. The Crown Prince's father had been too lenient in his youth, letting him journey the valleys of Valoran in search of prey and battles for the honour of the Lightshield family. All he'd ever done was fight and hunt for sport.

As a result, Jarvan IV simply was _not_ a politician, nor a thinker nor a ruler of a civil city at that. 'twas a cruel truth, but it needed to be said by someone some day. The scout feared the stress he would face upon succeeding the throne, and how he would fare against the dangers and trials of being a King.

He wasn't a warmonger by nature, no sir. He longed for peace and tranquillity throughout all of Valoran so vigorously, you couldn't help but admire him. Jarvan IV merely had a name to live up to and uphold proudly, even if it meant making brash decisions he would quickly regret. He was forever the loyal type, who'd never fail his friends and would always stand for what he felt was right.

_Oh, how she missed him._

The worrisome Valor released his companion's padded vambrace from his clutches and took flight, returning to his vigilant sweep of the never-ending blue sky. He could tell that the explorer simply needed some time to think to herself; to sort out her muddled thoughts and come to terms with her foggy mind. It was one thing to have an opinion on something.

_To understand it was something entirely different._

It was just in her nature to worry about the Exemplar's future – as a person, as a scout, and as a _woman_. She could vividly remember those fair times she'd spent with the young man; just a moment's reprieve from the tedium and dullness of life. She would never tell him of course, but speaking to the prince always seemed to take the weight off her mind. Even if it was merely brief.

The hero had been such a reliable friend in the past, and the doubt in her thoughts pained her to no end. Why was it that it always hurt to not be able to trust in someone you've believed in before? Why did brains and hearts have to be so vocal with their undying disputes?

Quinn scowled with irritation at how childish she was being, folding her arms across her chest like an indignant little girl. In her eyes – her striking, heightened, amber eyes – all that Jarvan needed was a _break_.

Nothing more.

_Just a month of losing his name, where he could be whoever he wanted to be._

Being a figure of propaganda and national pride must've come with its costs, your every move vigorously scrutinised by the public. Never being able to relax in fear that you'd be caught being you for the briefest of moments. She was glad that so few knew of Demacia's Wings, let alone what they _looked_ like. At least she could wander the streets of her hometown as a normal person, entirely ignored and left on her way like just about everyone else.

But Jarvan wasn't so lucky – could _never_ be so lucky. If she could offer herself and hercounsel to the Prince, in order to grant him some sort of rest from the pressure ofheroism and idolisation, she wouldn't resist.

Quinn would gladly sell all of her time, all of her work, all of her livelihood – all of it, right down to her name – for the man's peace of mind.

That brought her to a snicker. It was quite a goofy snicker at that too. She was glad that Valor wasn't close by to hear it, that's for certain. She just couldn't help it as she delved deep into her imagination, imagining the great man himself swapping his lance for a pool cue and enjoying himself for a day with her.

_That would be nice._

_Just a day or ten with Demacia's hero._

Quinn could remember the first time she'd met Jarvan. Her very first day on duty, in the gorgeous palace itself as the evening sun filtered through its towering stain glass windows. She could remember trying to add tactful grace to her steps, not wishing to damage the ornate panels of the sprawling halls. It wouldn't have surprised her if each square of breath-taking ivory cost more than an entire year's worth of her pay.

_That wouldn't be saying much._

_But don't tell her boss._

The Exemplar himself had been stood at the foot of the empty throne, honour bound to leave the high chair vacant so long as the father and liege that he loved lived on. He'd spoken to her with the wit and realism of a true warrior. Because in all honesty, that was what he was _–_ and _all_ he was_._ And for that moment as he stood beside her, bandying words as an equal, be it an avalanche or a stampede she would've gladly followed him through hell, 'round the corner and back for breakfast.

Yes, she'd _had_ a little bit of a crush on him like every other woman in her teens. Who could proudly call themselves a Demacian without harbouring feelings for the handsome man; the embodiment of all things Demacia was meant to stand for? Like the naïve young woman she was, her cheeks a rosy red at every hour of every day, she honestly thought such things could work – like in all those corny novels she strived to look beyond.

_She grew up, of course._

_Although sometimes, dreams never lose their innocent charm._

If anyone could see her now, they probably kept their distance from the lonesome woman giggling and guffawing to herself in front of two frozen effigies locked in mortal combat. Valor continued to circle the skies, letting the soothing winds comb through his feathers and straighten his ruffles. The serene woosh of air against his ears was enough to keep him occupied for days on end with its wonder.

Generally heroes couldn't fall in love, could they? Think of all those young girls – and some _boys_, mind – who kept going through the day with the sole motivation that perhaps soon, as the moon aligned with all the planets and stars, they could court and befriend the very beacon of their hopes and dreams. For those fantasies to be diced and dashed by mere bestial want was more than wrong, and Jarvan IV knew this well.

And so the Exemplar could never love. He could never truly pursue women, nor enact on pent up lusts or needs. He would remain repressing every emotion and desire, all to maintain the façade of Demacia's greatest knight in shining armour.

_It all seemed so well, and so good. So selfless._

_That this brave man had sold everything for the better of his people._

_But could it truly stand the test of time?_

It'd been years since they'd last spoke as colleagues. Quinn knew that he didn't need her to distract him from what was important. Their paths had converged and split away, and she had no right to obstruct this. But what she deeply feared was that without her – or anyone _else_ for that matter – to guide his path to kinghood and bring both reason and comprehension to the waters of his stormy mind, the city state itself had a bitter future in store. Of death, yet no glory for its populace.

_And so the wells run dry._

A peculiar shade of respect evolved into a deep sense of pity for the man bound by blood to aim for self-righteous and assertive war, no matter what the situation. It was this method of thought that had led to the War of Kalamanda in first place; what could've been the Third Rune War, and the end of the modern world as Valoran knew it. Mutually assured destruction all because of petty hatred.

What could've become of Kalamanda if they merely spoke_?_ Merely negotiated terms, with the knowledge that a cornered fox can bear its teeth? Swain and Noxus needed to be dealt with sensitively, and Jarvan's approach to the crisis was anything _but_.

Thankfully Jarvan III had some political tact, and both the logic and reason to repair his son's malicious decisions through his agreement with the League to secure Kalamanda. But such strokes of luck were few and far between, and the devious old king was nearing the end of his life. He was crooning further and further with each day, and sinking lower and lower into the dusty cushion of his throne.

_And with that, all hell breaks loose._

You could call her cruel and deem her thoughts chilling, yet to be perfectly blunt she was _glad_ for the Demacian before her - frozen in an eternal state of nothing, like a pawn taken out of play on a thousand mile long chessboard. Quinn was uncertain of the future. At least the soldier had the gift of never needing to face it, like the rest of his widowed family back home.

Regaining her composure Quinn pursed her lips to whistle, calling her companion down from his protective patrol within an instant. She welcomed the familiar weight on her leather-wrapped forearm, flexing her wrist with a relieving click. **"... I think we're done here, Val. Don't you?"** she exhaled, much to the relief of her avian comrade. Valor tilted his head erratically, wiggling his wings for recognition of his understanding. The scout merely flicked his beak, prompting him to rear back with playful confusion. **"… And thank you **_**oh**_** so much for your kindness, **_**Sir**_** Valor."**

_He probably missed the sarcasm there._

Taking wing once more Valor zipped up towards the skies with glorious grace, the speed and beauty of his ascent forever shocking onlookers with its navy blues. Marking the trail with tailing feathers, the eagle highlighted the passage to salvation. The empty and lifeless wastes that surrounded the area were far less unsettling than the village that time had forgotten.

Quinn found it difficult to turn her back on the pair of idols before her, as if she'd drawn the stare of a vicious lion and was backed against a wall. Ripping her eyes from the frozen blood, she cast her gaze downwards and turned, making her way for her items hastily. Clumsily Quinn scooped up her neglected satchel, quickly taking up a knee and haphazardly filling her bag with all sorts of equipment that had been left sprawled across the sandy ground.

"_History is written by the winners."_

That same phrase returned to her as her gloved fingertips brushed against the ragged leather cover of her life's work, like a mischievous and warty goblin dancing by her head eager for attention. With the crisp ruffle of turned pages, the Demacian counted each and every sentence until she at last reached her destination.

Wetting her quill with a fine dollop of ink she swept a line through the day's work, striking out any mention of Kalamanda or its "inhabitants". Some things were best left buried, and she felt that it would do the men and women that had "died" here that fateful day justice along with a sense of relief - if they were still _sentient_, mind. Tightly bound by cord, she timidly slipped the text back within the protective confines of her satchel, hauling it over her shoulder with a grunt of effort before at last setting off, making sure to never look back on the sprawling village stuck in eternal twilight.

_"History is written by the winners."_

_Although eventually all writers die._

_Sooner, rather than later._

_X_

_(A/N): Yeeaaaah, what I tried to do was let the power of rambling take over here… And it kind of didn't work in my favour :l_

_I feel like the original meaning of this fic kind of gets diluted, which is a shame. But meh, that happens! Can't always strike gold can we?_

_GET IT? KALAMANDA? GOLD? AHAHAHAHHAHAHAA-_

_*Ahem* Thanks for reading, apologies for suckage, and have a good day!_


End file.
